


Midnight Hands

by MissWah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluffy, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissWah/pseuds/MissWah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't feeling well but doesn't want to tell John what's wrong. Meanwhile John worries and tries to figure things out for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Hands

When John had left the flat not half an hour ago Sherlock had been sitting at the kitchen table doing one of his many experiments. Now, however, he was lying down stretched across the sofa with his head buried in a pillow.

John dropped the shopping bags off in the kitchen before going back into the living room and kneeling beside Sherlock, questioning the detective’s current situation seeing as he never stopped in the middle on an experiment and he rarely ever napped in the middle of the afternoon.

He put his hand out and started stroking the detective’s face. “Sherlock, what’s the matter?”

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, lightly rubbing it with his thumb, until finally he grabbed it and placed it over the back of his neck.

“My neck hurts. I needed to lie down; it was too uncomfortable to sit.”

“You think maybe your neck hurts because you’ve been sleeping on this damn sofa for the past three nights?” John berated him, though at the same time he started rubbing Sherlock’s neck, hoping to soothe some of the pain and get Sherlock functioning again. He was rewarded with a deep sigh and a satisfied groan from the detective.

“Maybe,” Sherlock conceded.

John continued rubbing his neck for a few more minutes before getting up to make dinner. “Does this mean you’ll actually come to bed with me tonight then?” John asked from the kitchen.

He heard Sherlock groaning from the living room as he sat up on the sofa, rubbing his stiff neck as best as he could. “Of course I will. I just needed to finish that case, which I have now.”

John watched alarmingly as Sherlock got up from the sofa and swayed before finally settling down on it again and resting his head on his hands. The doctor walked over quickly and once again kneeled down in front of Sherlock.

“What was that?” He grasped Sherlock’s hands in one of his own and lifted his chin up to look him in the eye. “What’s the matter now?”

“Head rush,” Sherlock replied, “I’m fine now, I just need something to eat.”

“If you’re sure,” John said, though it was clear he was still concerned. “I’m making dinner now if you want to help out.”

“Sure, just give me a minute.”

In the end Sherlock ended up staying curled up on the sofa, but John didn’t mind. He was starting to feel worried about Sherlock. He’d been on a case for the past five days which meant, as usual, that he’d barely eaten or slept, not properly anyway, and it was clearly getting to him. When he finally finished he took the plates over to Sherlock and sat down next to him watching telly.

John was keeping a very close eye on Sherlock who was picking at his food dismally, more so than usual, which was strange especially when he hadn’t eaten properly in days.

“Sherlock, you’re really worrying me. What is it? Do you not like the food?”

“The food’s fine, John,” he said as he pushed the plate away, “I just feel a bit nauseous.”

John eyed him critically for a moment, worried that Sherlock was coming down with something. “You should get some rest then. Go to bed, and hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I’m not tired, and I don’t want to go to bed alone.”

“Fine, but you should still get some rest.” Most of the time there was no point arguing with Sherlock, but when it came to his health John always put his foot down. It was his job as a doctor and as Sherlock’s partner to look after him when he needed him, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

After dinner he put the plates away and washed them before coming back into the living room. Sherlock had changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown and was once again lying across the sofa, now with his eyes closed. John turned the telly on before walking over to the sofa.

“Sherlock,” he called out, “you’re tired, go to bed.”

The detective opened his eyes only a fraction and looked up at John. “I’m not, I was just resting my eyes.” He sat up slightly, balancing himself on his elbows and pushing forwards on the sofa so that his feet now hung over the edge in an unspoken invitation for John to join him.

John huffed in annoyance at Sherlock’s stubbornness but soon gave in and sat down on the sofa. As soon as he did Sherlock lay his head down on his lap and closed his eyes again. John started running his hands through Sherlock’s curls distractedly while he watched telly.

Sherlock had been quiet and still for the most part, but when the adverts came on and the telly flashed especially bright he curled up on himself, shutting his eyes tightly, and moaned.

“What is it?”

“It’s too bright,” Sherlock complained. He then turned around so that he was facing the back of the sofa instead of the telly, his head still lying in John’s lap. “It makes my eyes hurt.”

John was silently cataloguing Sherlock’s symptoms hoping to figure out exactly what was wrong, though no overly concerning symptoms had presented themselves as of yet. “We should go to bed.”

“In a minute, you’re still watching that horrid movie.”

John chuckled but agreed, he really did want to finish the film, and Sherlock looked to be comfortable enough, even in the position he was in.

Over the years he had come to learn most of Sherlock’s quirks and his tells, especially when he was ill or in pain and didn’t want John to notice, which of course was impossible, he was a doctor after all. So when John felt Sherlock’s already tense body tense up even more he knew there was something wrong.

He turned the telly off with the remote and carefully grabbed Sherlock under the armpits and brought him flush against his chest. The detective was pliant under his arms, clearly concentrating all his energy on hiding what was wrong rather than trying to get comfortable or actually doing something proactive that might help alleviate whatever was wrong with him.

“Sherlock Homes, this is the last time I’m asking you, what’s wrong?”

Deciding that there was absolutely no point in hiding it from John anymore Sherlock finally confessed. “My head hurts. It’s been hurting all day, that’s why I stopped that experiment.”

And suddenly everything clicked into place; the abandoned experiment, the lying down in the middle of the day, the head rush, the nausea and the sensitivity to light. “It’s not just a headache though, is it, Sherlock? It’s a bloody migraine.”

“Probably, yes.”

“I thought we’d discussed this before. Whenever you feel a migraine coming on, you should tell me.” John got up from the sofa and dropped Sherlock down gently, careful not to aggravate his head further.

“What for?” Sherlock asked dismissively.

John rummaged around in the kitchen for a minute before coming back with some paracetamol and a glass of water. “So that I can give you something that will help. That way you can stop being in pain and I can stop worrying about you.”

“John, you know I don’t like taking tablets.”

“I know, Sherlock, “John said, a note of understanding in his voice, “but you know how bad your migraines can get, and this will help. They should be over in a day or two, you won’t have to take them for long.”

It was the reason why Sherlock’s migraines ever got that bad. He refused to take medication until he couldn’t think or do anything because he was always worried about anything that might trigger a relapse, but John knew that, which was why he was the only one that knew where the tablets were in the flat and always kept a close eye on the dosage he gave Sherlock.

“Sherlock, please!” John pleaded. He hated seeing Sherlock in pain, especially when there was something he could do about it. “At least to alleviate the first symptoms.”

“Fine, I’ll take the damn tablets,” the detective huffed.

He put his hand out and John gave him the tablets along with the glass of water. After taking them, instead of handing the glass back to John as he usually did, Sherlock got up and took it to the kitchen himself. It was clear that he was upset, but John didn’t intend to let him sulk for long. This was one of those things they absolutely needed to talk about.

“Sherlock, I-”

“What now?” Sherlock snapped. John looked affronted for a moment before Sherlock seemed to realise what he’d said and went over to John and wrapped his arms around him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“I know, Sherlock,” he said as he ran his hands up and down the detective’s back, “I understand. We’ve talked about this before though, you don’t have to worry.”

Sherlock let go of John and cupped his face and in his hands, bringing his lips to his own in one deep long kiss. When he let go he left his hands in place and rested his forehead on John’s, their breaths mingling in their close proximity.

“I don’t want to have to go through that again, John. I can’t, I-” his voice broke and he collapsed onto John again.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. Don’t worry, I’m here,” he said as he went back to stroking Sherlock’s back soothingly, “I’m here and I’ll look out for you. It’s not like it was before, you have me now.”

After a couple of minutes John broke away and kissed Sherlock quickly. “C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock didn’t protest when John held his hand and pulled him towards their room, which was Sherlock’s old one. John tried changing into his pyjamas but as soon as he got rid of his clothes the detective didn’t let him put anything else on.

They fell into bed together, Sherlock in his pyjamas and dressing gown and John in his pants, which he thought was an unfair advantage for his partner.

“How about you get rid of this?” John asked as he tugged at the hem of Sherlock’s trousers.

The detective quickly slipped out of them, along with his pants, and dropped them over the side of the bed. “Your turn.”

John obliged but then suddenly stopped as he realised what they were about to do. “We really shouldn’t, Sherlock. You should be resting, your head-”

“My head hurts and it will continue to hurt until the pain is done. In the meantime, I would really appreciate a distraction.”

“Well, I suppose I could help with that.”

“Please do,” Sherlock said, and then quickly latched on to John’s lips. The kisses were fiercer now, more desperate. He wasn’t planning on taking long, he just wanted John now, quickly! “Hurry up, get the lube.”

“Where is it?” John asked as he stumbled out of the bed. Sherlock’s semi-naked form and his eagerness were getting to him, and he was more than ready.

“I don’t know! Where the hell did you leave it?”

“Calm down, alright?” John said, though he completely understood why Sherlock was getting impatient. He thought for a second before finally remembering. “I think we left it in the bathroom last night.”

“Go on then, hurry up!”

It wasn’t a full minute later when John was leaning over Sherlock’s writhing form, two fingers deep inside him, while he kissed the detective thoroughly from lips all the way down to his chest over and over again.

“John, please,” Sherlock pleaded, “I need more. I need you!”

John gave in, Sherlock’s breathy pleas and quiet moans working at his resolve, and lined himself up before slowly slipping inside Sherlock.

The detective threw his head back on the pillow and opened his mouth in pure pleasure, but no sound came out. John watched from above, moving slowly, as the emotions crossed Sherlock’s face. He’d been worried at first that this would make Sherlock’s migraine worse, but it was clear now that the discomfort and pain were gone, giving way only to pleasure.

“Oh John,” Sherlock moaned, “you’re amazing. Fantastic!”

At Sherlock’s words John sped up slightly, going a little faster, a little deeper, and Sherlock started moaning loudly. “Shh, Sherlock, try to be quiet.” It wasn’t that late, and it was likely that Mrs Hudson was still awake downstairs.

“It’s not like she doesn’t know what we do in here, John,” Sherlock said, as though reading his mind.

“I know, but still… just try, oh-” John cut off when Sherlock squeezed his muscles around him and started biting his neck. “That’s not fair,” he complained, once he could speak again.

“Who said anything about fair?” Sherlock asked as he moved his hips along with John’s, intensifying every sensation coursing through their bodies.

It wasn’t long before neither of them could contain their pleasured moans so they kissed, and they kissed, mouths suppressing the noises that they couldn’t until finally they were both quiet, heaving messes on the sheets.

John collapsed on top of Sherlock trying to bring his breathing back to normal and wanting nothing more than to cuddle up to the man he loved for the rest of the night.

“I can’t believe we just had sex while you were wearing your dressing gown.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

John lifted himself off of Sherlock and went to the bathroom to fetch a wet flannel. By the time he came back into the room Sherlock was completely naked, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

John dropped down in front of him, cleaned him up and then lay him down across the bed. “How’s your head?”

“It’s getting worse again.”

He dropped a soft kiss on the detective’s lips before lying down next to him on the bed. “You’ll be alright, just try to get some sleep.”

Sherlock instinctively curled up against John, his hand draped over the doctor’s chest, holding his hand. John used his free hand to bring the sheets up over them, hoping that Sherlock would be able to get some sleep tonight.

It was only two hours later when he woke up. He didn’t realize why at first until he felt the empty hand and the cold side of the bed next to him. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and tried to listen for anything out of place.

In the distance he could hear muffled whimpers and he shot out of bed, only taking time to put on his dressing gown before running straight to the bathroom where the sound seemed to be coming from.

He walked in to find Sherlock in just his dressing gown curled up against the bathtub, knees drawn up to his chest and arms crossed over them supporting his head. It wasn’t the first time he had come to find Sherlock like this. Whenever the pain got too bad and he couldn’t sleep he always retreated somewhere so that John could still sleep. But John preferred to be awake and help Sherlock through it, even if it meant staying up all night.

“I’ll be back in just a second, Sherlock, alright?”

He saw the muddle of curls nod slightly before stilling once again. He quickly ran over to the kitchen to fetch some more tablets seeing as it was time to take them again anyway and grabbed a glass of water as well. He took them into the bathroom and set them down so that his hands were free.

“I need you to take these, okay, Sherlock?” he asked as he gently nudged Sherlock’s head up.

But Sherlock wouldn’t move, only to shake his head. “Please, you know it’ll help. I hate seeing you like this.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock managed to say, though it was clear his own voice was exacerbating the pain.

“You have to.”

“No, you don’t understand, I-”

But Sherlock didn’t have time to finish, though John had a pretty good idea what he was about to say when the detective leaned over the toilet and started vomiting.

John simply rubbed his back, hoping to bring what little comfort he could. When Sherlock was finished he collapsed back on John’s chest and the doctor placed his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. The migraines didn’t usually get this bad and he was starting to wonder if maybe they were an underlying symptom to something else.

“It’s just a migraine, John.”

“We’ll have to wait and see.” Sherlock turned around, arms thrown around John and head buried in the crook of his neck. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

Relief flooded through John at those words. It was always difficult to see Sherlock like this, even though he knew it would eventually go away. But pain never seemed like it would, in the moment it always seemed never-ending.

“Do you still want to take the tablets?” John asked. He didn’t want to force Sherlock into anything, but the suggestion alone would tell Sherlock that John thought he should, and he hoped that would get him to say yes.

“Might as well.”

After taking the tablets John supported Sherlock as they got back into bed. He lay him down carefully, cushioned his head on the pillow until he was comfortable and then settled down beside him. “How does that feel?”

“S’good,” Sherlock slurred, “m’tired.”

“Go to sleep then. Don’t forget to wake me up if you get up before me.”

Sherlock only hummed in response, too tired to reply properly. John tried to fight sleep for as long as he could, worried that Sherlock’s migraine would worsen again and he would be left alone to fight through it, but sleep won out in the end.

When he woke up the next morning Sherlock was still asleep. He slowly slipped out of bed trying not to wake him and put the kettle on in the kitchen. He prepared two mugs of tea while he waited and just as he was about to go into the room to check on Sherlock the detective walked out looking ruffled and surprisingly well-rested.

He strode towards John and wrapped his arms around the doctor’s waist before bringing their lips together in a deep kiss, tongues venturing out, deepening the kiss, prolonging the pleasure. John responded quickly, tilting his head to give Sherlock better access and cupping the detective’s face in his hands.

“I take it you’re feeling better,” John said after they broke apart.

“Much better, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it, but I didn’t do anything.”

The kettle clicked off at that point and John moved over to the counter to fill their mugs with water. Sherlock was quickly behind him, wrapping his arms around John once again, bringing them together at the front in line with the mugs. Once John put the water in, squeezed and took out the teabags Sherlock added the milk and did one final stir. Soon enough their tea was ready and they moved over to the sofa.

John was spread across it with Sherlock between his legs, head leaning back against John’s chest and stroking his partner’s leg with his violinist fingers. “Don’t ever say that again, John.”

“What?” John asked, surprised and confused as to what Sherlock was talking about.

“Don’t ever say you didn’t do anything- you did everything. You were there for me when I needed you, no matter what you were doing or what time it was.”

“I know, but I just feel so helpless, there’s nothing I can do.”

“You were there,” Sherlock said again, more firmly this time, “you distracted me from the pain and you took care of me. Thank you.”

John dipped his head down slightly to kiss Sherlock, telling him he understood and would be there for him whenever he needed him, forever. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
